What blustering visitor
Does the whispering wind
Present upon my windowsill?
Out upon the glowing glaze
Of greening grass
Atop the wooded hill,
Can that be the light
And tripping figure of brilliant hair
And careless ease?
My own true love?
Can it be her white-
Laced dress this night wind
Rustles with its breeze?
What dry and drifting dust
Do the dying breezes
Enfold beneath their mustard silt
Out under the growing haze
Of evening gas
Atop the stony hill?
Can that be the pale
Thinning figure of dull blighted hair
Dissolving within?
My own true love?
Can it be her white
Bones that this night breeze
Rustles with its wind?
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